Wednesday, August 13, 2008

stoop thoughts

Thinking about men who scour my yard for cigarette butts. I walk outside sometimes and these men are there. They look at me self consciously and I want to talk to them. They quickly stash the butts in their pockets and pick up whatever they are carrying and walk away, disappearing into the night.


I speak to them in my mind, and my head feels like it is going to explode. I talk to them like I am praying, like I am writing a letter.

Father, Brother, Lover, Warrior... whoever You are,

I sit here humbly, in front of a house that I do not own. My front stoop is covered by a carpet that is almost worn through, stapled to wood. The windows in this house do not open and sometimes I feel like I am in a prison. Carpets are filled with coffee stains and there is almost no light. At night time I sit out here to remind myself that life still keeps moving.

I watch you because you are a reflection of me, and I am not afraid of you. I wonder if you have ever known love, and want to tell you that I have not ever known real love. Most of the love in my life has been painful and now I sit here with butts on my lawn, wondering if it was worth it. If it is still worth it.

Take whatever you want. Sometimes I can't feed my cats or myself and I want to go far away from here, somewhere where I don't have to fill anyone's belly or heart with something that I don't have. Here, on this same stoop, I look at flyers and feel like I exist in a separate universe from these things. I live in search of feeling, experiencing, because I don't know what else there is. Everything else seems out of reach.

I wander sometimes too, but never far from here because something always feels unfinished. I wander and trip over toys and books and chairs, and my world is like a obstacle course. I almost never find my way; instead I sit down wherever I am and search my mind for what to feel. Sometimes I cry, but sometimes I can't, so I think about the eyes of a little boy whom I have never met, and tears run down my face. Sometimes I clear a space on the carpet and look at the ceiling.

I want to tell you that I am a woman who hangs by a thread sometimes. That I am disconnected, lost.

I want to invite you in, show you who I am, that I am nothing more than you are. My pockets are full of butts and flowers from other people's yards, and I love you.